No More
by mime4life
Summary: House finds himself in yet another jam, and as always, Wilson is there to help him out of it. But how long can this last? As House becomes more dependent, Wilson becomes impatient. Neither man is sure that they are just friends. Hilson story, but not until multiple chapters in.
1. Chapter 1

Wilson stands around the corner from the piano at the loft he shares with Gregory House, his longtime friend. He watches the older man finger the keys, listening to the ethereal sounds produced. House doesn't know he's standing there, hiding. Wilson had come home early, after the death of a particularly brave five year old with terminal leukemia. Now, late at night, House sits relishing in one of the few moments of peace that his troubled soul is granted. A bottle of Vicodin sits on the ledge of the piano, open, with a couple of pills spilling out. On the opposite side of the piano, a couple empty beer cans perch. Wilson closes his eyes, swaying to the music; until the sound abruptly stops.

"House! House!" Wilson screams, rushing to House, who is slumped over and unconscious, his face pressed against the keys. The sound produced from the impact is still resonating throughout the air.

He checks for a pulse. It's slow, but it's there. Without another moment's delay he pulls out his cell phone and dials 911.

In record time, Wilson stands alone in the waiting room at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He hasn't heard back from the ER doctors since House was brought in, but it would only be a matter of time until his suspicions were confirmed. It was a drug overdose. Of course it was a drug overdose. When was Wilson going to stop reinforcing House's god-awful behavior by continuously writing those prescriptions?

Wilson could almost hear House's voice in his head, over and over again, repeating, "I'm in pain. Every day. The Vicodin lets me do my job."

"I can't keep watching House kill himself. This time… this overdose… is going to be the last time. I care about him too much to watch him wither away," Wilson thought.

Around fifteen minutes later, an ER nurse approaches Wilson. "I have some good news and some bad news for you, Dr. Wilson. The good is that Dr. House is now stable and resting. The bad is that he appears to have had an overdose on his prescribed pain medication Vicodin… we had to pump his stomach. Dr. House should be fine in a couple days, but…"

"I know," Wilson cut off. "I'll talk to him."


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, House emerges from his deep slumber with a start. Immediately, his hand snatches at his leg, running an inventory down to his feet. Thigh: check. Knee: check. Shin: check. Thank god it's all still there. Every time he wakes up in a hospital bed, he fears that it will be the time they amputate.

It's not like he didn't know what he was doing last night; House knew that he shouldn't have taken that last handful of Vicodin.

"It's killing me," he thought. "Every one of Wilson's bald-headed cancer kids was most likely going to live longer than I am. Crap! Wilson! He must have taken me here… he must be furious…"

It was at that moment that House looked up and realized that he wasn't alone.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty."

Looking as glossy-haired and glassy-eyed as he does when he has had a whole night's worth of sleep, Wilson sits in the chair at House's bedside.

"Haven't I fulfilled your desire for neediness yet? Get out of here," House spat.

"You're not getting rid of me that easy."

"Why don't you give an old cripple a little peace," House says as he adjusts his pillows, pretending to be getting ready for a nap.

"Look, House, we can't just pretend that last night didn't happen."

"Can I piss first?" House quips as he throws back the covers and starts shifting his weight towards the edge of the bed.

Wilson gives him a look. After gingerly swinging his legs to the floor, House adds, "I know…"

He tries to take a step, but fails and catches himself with the nightstand. Without any painkillers in his system for over seven hours, his thigh is killing him. House lowers himself to the ground, and grasps the muscle that is nearly in spasm. Wilson rushes to House's side, kneeling beside his best friend.

"You can't keep going like this," Wilson starts, but soon realizes that House is dead white and shaking in pain. This is no time for a conversation.

House can't even unclench his teeth to ask for the drugs. It's a standoff. Wilson knows that House wants, maybe even needs the drugs. But after last night, he's not so sure he wants to keep giving in. Instead, he digs into the bulging muscle with his palms, deeply massaging the core of the pain. Wilson works at it until his own forearm begins to cramp.

After what seemed like hours later, House and Wilson lie exhausted on the floor. The worst of the pain has left Greg's fragile body. For a man with such a large presence when awake, he appears wasted and pained when unconscious. Wilson rests for a few minutes, then picks himself up and wipes the sweat off of his forehead. House has lost so much weight lately that Wilson can lift him back on to the bed with little effort.

It doesn't take long for Wilson to change his mind. He presses the button to call for a nurse.

Within a few minutes, she appears. After a quick consult, she leaves and returns with a syringe full of morphine.

"I'm going to regret this," Wilson reflects as he injects the medicine into House's bicep.

The pain is seen leaving his body. A rush of relief is apparent, even in sleep. Tiptoeing over to his sleeping beauty, Wilson pulls the covers over House and plants a quick kiss on his forehead.

"Sleep tight."


End file.
